


BDG DRAFT

by TheDuckFollows



Category: Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: Attempted Ass, Attempted Kidnapping, Attempted Murder, Friends to Better Friends and maybe Lovers we'll see, I will trashtalk Spanish political parties, M/M, Presidency, President Brian David Gilbert, Spain, Spanish Inquisition
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:28:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23800813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDuckFollows/pseuds/TheDuckFollows
Comments: 3
Kudos: 7





	1. A matter of presidentialism.

Patrick Gill was many things, a ferocious general ready to fight and win at all costs, a brilliant strategist who could put Napoleon to shame, a one-man surprise party no one saw coming, an endless pursuer of the truth and a weaver of lies, the president’s closest friend and ally, his lover, according to right-wing parties -in a half-assed attempt to dismiss his credibility- and his mother.

But right now, he was, as the Spaniards who now dutifully served him would say, “Hasta los cojones.”

“You sure you don’t like it? It matches my nails.” Brian gave him a cheeky grin as he waved his neon green nails in his face, the paint still fresh.

“That outfit is hideous.” To the president, Patrick was an aide de camp, his very right-hand man, partner both in crime and in law, and very mean when it came to his fabulous fashion style. Always ready to critique his latest designs.

“It’s majestic!” The president flashed a manic smile before swivelling down the corridor, his heavy cape swishing with the movement of his feminine hips, crashing into furniture and managing to knock down three surely expensive jade vases.

The latest scandal rocking the ‘That Colour That Looks Like Old, Dried Lemon’ House, as the President had deemed an utmost necessity renaming and repainting the building previously known as La Moncloa -a lousy paint job made the name ring true- had something to do with opposing parties. Probably.

The president had a habit of bringing his Switch to cabinet meetings, and key pieces of information often escaped him. Luckily, Patrick was always there to lend a much-needed ear.

Nevertheless, he more often than not felt like a kindergarten teacher trying to reduce the damage caused by a five-year-old psychopath who had found a drawer full of scissors. And not the dull-edged ones typically found in classrooms. These scissors were the real deal, sharp as well-aimed insults. And the kid was having a blast playing with them.

For unsurprisingly, being the president of Spain had quickly become a most boresome task.

Brain David Gilbert had been crowned by a dying -and hallucinating, no matter what the doctors said- king as a world-wide pandemic came to an end. The old ruler, Felipe VI, had disinherited his whole family, on claims that they were plotting to shave his head and eyebrows, before turning to the then-American-tourist-caught-off-guard-by-COVID 19-while-abroad as though he were an angel sent from Heaven. The ceremony had been short and clumsy and illegal on so many levels it didn’t cease to amaze the population, but Patrick had merely referred the people of Spain to the Wikipedia page for the wedding of Isabel la Católica and Fernando de Aragón. Thus, the parliamentary monarchy had been transformed into a new, loosened type of absolute monarchy, resembling a dictatorship in more ways than Patrick would like to admit.

Brian had been close to blowing it on many one occasion, from repeatedly telling the king his name wasn’t ‘Brain’ to accidentally eliminating a whole opposing party as he knocked off a coffee cup, which then fell on the computer controlling sound and lights for the ceremony. The resulting short circuit had caused a minor explosion on the left side of the church, instantly charing all the pews where the members of the party previously known as ‘VOX’ had been sitting. Only the bodies of two of the leaders hadn’t been found amidst the massacre, something that Patrick always kept in mind.

Everyone blamed whoever had left the coffee cup there in the first pace- probably Brian, too- and with his newfound support from both left-wing parties, the republicans -thankfully, not the American style- and other communist and anarchist organisations scattered across the country had made his rates skyrocket.

Still, he hadn’t had the heart to tell the woman who handed him his plaque, effectively identifying him as the new ruler of the sunny country, that the name, still, wasn’t ‘Brain’.

There were only three attempts on his life the first week of his presidency, thankfully.

All foiled by Patrick alone, who, each time, insisted Brian up his security, as the guards, mysteriously so, were nowhere to be seen when the attacks occurred.

Now that almost a year had passed, things were calmer, with statistics showing that coup d’ etats and assassination attempts had gone down from 78% to a meaningless 49%.

That very same week, for example, Brian had been rudely awoken from his nap, a nice and dare he say fulfilling habit he had picked up from locals. He made it into law, effective-immediate. Just as Muslims and Jews had Fridays and Christians had Sundays, the Spanish now had Nap. Between 2:00 pm and 3:00 pm, all activity was to cease, both legal and illegal. That included everything, from eating to talking, studying, walking, sex, jumping a fence, escaping from the police, seeking refuge in a Church, being arrested anyways, pleading innocent in the trial, being given the death penalty, trying to escape once again and lastly, dying.

That also meant there was no security in the ‘That Colour That Looks Like Old, Dried Lemon’ House, so those who decided to do illegal things the illegal way had a whole hour to carry out their assassination attempts.

It also explained why, coming out of his room to find whoever had awakened him, he wasn’t caught off-guard by the sight of Pat drenched from head to toe in blood. He held a bloody and bent desert spoon in his hand, which he had once intended to use for eating. The poor piece of cutlery hadn’t found its way into a spongy piece of cake, by the looks of it, but into a much fleshier surface, if Brian were to judge by the couple dozen bodies scattered around the floor, all with rather messy stab marks and indentations.

“You look pissed.”

“Get used to seeing that expression on my face, Mr President.”

He pouted, trying to find the words to apologise for being so insensitive. He often took Patrick’s protection and companionship for granted, and since the beginning of his presidency, it was beginning to make a dent in their friendship. Plus, Mr President was the nickname Patrick used when he was truly angry, not merely irritated, as if to remind Brian that had he not taken up the crown of Spain, he wouldn’t have to deal with lousy killers and protestors. Had he not insisted on travelling to Spain in the first place, dragging Pat along for his selfish whims, they wouldn’t be in that situation, to begin with.

He didn’t get to say anything, as Patrick shook his head. Brian was always amazed and a little jealous by how elegantly Patrick walked, even at times like this when he was fuming, he turned around without another word, but rather than stomping out, he left the room with light steps and swift movements.

He thought of calling out to him, to remind him that he was supposed to be taking a nap, not eating, but thought better of it and went back to the sweet bliss of temporary death.

One day, he thought, one day they would go back to America, to his home and friends. But right now it just wasn’t a viable option. As COVID 19 receded into nothingness all around the world, America dug itself deeper into the trench of contagion and death with each decision the president took. Maybe he should go back now, after all, and plan a coup d'etat himself, get rid of the man responsible for so much suffering.

But for now, he needed to focus his attention on the people of the land he ruled. They were dispersed and confrontational, divided by too many problems other countries had left in the past and unspoken biases he was only now beginning to see. Only after he had effectively served and protected his people would he go back, and in turn, he would serve and protect _his_ people.

Next chapter:


	2. Campus trouble

The first time he worried Patrick might suffer the consequences of choosing to be by his side they were visiting a prestigious university, La Complutense, a few minutes from the ‘That Colour That Looks Like Old, Dried Lemon’ House. Patrick had insisted they keep the presidential visits as close to the House as possible, to avoid making their enemies' jobs even easier.

And while it certainly made sense under the pretence of keeping Brian safe, if the screams coming from the other side of the campus were anything to go by, it hadn't worked out as well as they'd hoped.

It only took them seconds to see what was causing them. A gigantic creature that looked worryingly similar to a monster from a first-person shooter videogame was jumping around, trashing everything and digging its metal claws into anyone in its path. 

“Holy shit,” Brian muttered, a mere whisper. Yet the creature’s head slowly turned until it wasn’t anatomically possible and locked on its new target. Them.

“Remember, Brian, the things that scare us aren’t always the things that can harm us.” Patrick slowly unholstered his gun as the creature started trotting towards them.

Brian eyed the gun warily for a second. He had been unaware that Patrick was packing. In fact, he had been unaware Patrick knew how to fire a gun at all. “Give me an example.”

“Global warming.”

“Global warming terrifies me!”

“I know.”

He smacked Patrick on the arm lightly.

“Asshole. Besides, I’m pretty much sure that thing can and will hurt us.”

“If we give it a chance.” He kept his gun trained on the abomination, which was closing in at a vertiginous speed.

“Which you won’t, I’m sure.”

“Go hide in a closet, Brian. Now.”

“When I come out you better be there,” he huffed in annoyance at being treated like a frail little thing. Again.

Patrick chuckled. “Sure thing, pal.”

The bitch was persistent. Patrick had taken to calling the monster that after the first half-hour of chasing through the different buildings, as it was mottled with fur as well as a snout full of sharp rows of teeth, dipped in metal and blood, as its claws.

The similarities didn’t stop at physical traits, for the thing could smell him and track him no matter how well he evaded it. After a particular gnarly encounter with it he hadn’t been expecting -the bitch could be as silent as it was deadly when it wanted to- which had left both the mathematics and the biology buildings in ruins he decided to just make a run for it, sprinting across an area reserved for sports. This new section of the campus had buildings to the right and the left of an open field. He ran to the left side, knowing it had easier access to the road, and all but flung himself down the many sets of stairs.  
He had left the thing behind, although he knew it wouldn’t be long before it crashed through a wall or the ceiling.

But who was he kidding? In the end, the monster was just that, a monster -and it would score even lower than Pyramid head, if he had a say in it, so it wasn’t even that good of a monster-, and he was Patrick. 

In moments like these, he wondered what Brian would do without him. Not in a self-aggrandising way, he truly worried about the man’s safety. Had he been left at the ‘That Colour That Looks Like Old, Dried Lemon’ House as Brian had first wanted, the man would have probably been ripped to shreds long ago.  
Now, Patrick was acting as live bait, as he so often did, and he couldn’t help the relief flooding him. He could handle a two-ton monster any day. But loosing his best friend? That he couldn’t bear to think.

At that moment, all he had to do was keep distracting the beast, outrunning and outsmarting it. And as long as he kept his wits about him, it shouldn’t be that hard.

First thing, he had to get rid of the smell. He thought of coating his clothes in the first substance he found, anything to mask his scent. After all, the campus had many buildings dedicated to the natural sciences. It wasn’t until he looked up and saw the big, bold-lettered banner that said ‘Filologías’ that he realised he might have a problem. 

“Of all the fucking buildings…” He ignored the ground floor completely, instead opting to head to the first floor, put as much distance between himself and the impending threat. He had to admit that the building had some advantages. For one, the floor was tiled with a wooden pattern that wasn’t slippery at all if he were to remove his shoes. In the previous buildings he hadn’t even considered it, and running across the campus grounds it just wasn’t a good idea, but now he could his steps would be lighter. He quickly discarded his shoes, choosing to hide them inside a trash can in the ladies bathroom, the one closest. As he risked a look outside, he knew he couldn’t stay put in one place for long, and he still had to fix the problem of the scent.

Luckily, mother nature is always there to lend a hand. The idea shone brightly in his mind as he dragged one of the big, plotted plants inside the bathroom, ripping the poor plant from its earthy home. He placed the pot under the tap and let the water run for a few seconds. The earth used was surprisingly rich and in no time the smell of wet soil hit his nose. Perfect. 

Scooping some of it, he thoroughly spread it on his shirt and pants, coating his arms and neck too. He scooped a generous amount for his hair, failing to keep the grimace off his face as wet trails ran dangerously close to his eyes and down the nape of his neck, soaking his shirt where he couldn't reach.  
Facing the mirror, he applied some of it, as one would a beauty mask, and lastly, he stepped, alternating each foot, into the now half-empty pot. He couldn’t help the shivers that ran through his body as his socks quickly soaked the water.

He hid the evidence of his doings as best as he could and stepped out again. He moved swiftly through the rest of the rooms, the dark floor doing an excellent work of hiding the dark, humid marks he left as he stepped.

Now he was prepared to outlast the creature, at least until the authorities arrived and took care of it. He had no intention of fighting the creature if he didn’t have to. He had no doubt he would come out on top if it came down to it, but not without a scratch, and chances were it wouldn’t be necessary to confront it anyway. For a second he considered no-one would come to aid them, but even though he knew without a doubt that Brian had been the monster’s target, he doubted the authorities were in on it. So far it was causing a lot of destruction, which would lead to economic damage as well as plenty of media coverage. And as far as he had seen, the creature hadn’t had a problem with killing the scholars in its path.

That made him worry again. The silence had stretched for too long. Maybe the creature had given up on him and was now looking for Brian. Maybe it had found him. He was about to head down once again when a loud crashing sound on the ground floor proved his nagging doubts to be all but true. Well, that was that, then.

As the creature galloped up the stairs to the last floor where it could track Patrick, he scurried down the stairs at the other end of the building, thanking his sharp hearing for letting him know exactly what the beast was doing.

It seemed stumped, walking in and out of the bathroom, across the floor and then back inside.

He reached the ground floor and looked for a room with a window without bars as far from the entrance as possible. After locating one, he climbed out and calmly headed towards the road outside the campus. The M-30 was always busy where they rode, but the area near the campus usually had light traffic. Just before reaching it, he changed his direction, now walking towards the flashing red and blue lights in the distance, where he had come from as he ran from the beast in the first place. He kept to the shadows and the much-needed cover of cars, as he could no longer hear the angry whines and groans of the monster, and in no time he had reached a barricade of police cars. He was glad to see Brian amidst the sea of police officers, gesticulating wildly at the cop taking his testimony.

Just before he could reach their line of sight, however, a very unsettling sound made him freeze on the spot.  
A low growl, followed by a shriek as a second monster leapt towards him. He cursed himself for not even considering the possibility of there being another monster.

“Shit.” He dodged the beast, flinging himself to the side and in turn colliding with a car.  
He pressed his arm to his now-throbbing side and hoped he wouldn’t puncture a lung, because if the sharp pain shooting through his ribcage was of any indication, he had at the very least fractured one.

“Pat?” Brian had turned in his direction, as well as most of the officers, and as the monster came into view once again Brian’s eyes widened comically. “Patrick!”

That seemed to do the trick, as the monster’s head snapped up from where he had been flashing his sharp fangs at Patrick, mouth foaming. With Brian in its sights, it saw red, producing the highest-pitched scream Patrick had ever heard before throwing itself in Brian’ direction. The cops responded quickly, and Patrick had to crawl behind a car to avoid the shower of bullets fired in his direction, even if he wasn’t the target.

Behind all the noise from the bullet sprays and the monster's angry whines, he could make out Brian’s desperate complains. 

It seemed like an eternity before the noise finally stopped. The monster lay on the floor, motionless and shredded.

He stayed in place as the cops got closer. They quickly make sure the creature was dead before one spotted him. He took out his radio, eyeing him with a pang of sadness.

“Another civilian down, no visuals on the other target.”

With more effort than he thought would be necessary, Patrick raised a hand and waved weakly.

“Not dead.” He gestured towards the philologies building. "The thing is still there, I think."

“Patrick!” He turned to the side only to be engulfed by the warmth of a shaky Brian. “I’m resigning Pat, this shit is unnerving.” He then leaned back, making a disgusted face before giving him a once over. “What the hell happened to you?”

“You sure you don’t like it? It matches my nails.” He turned his hands, caked in dried mud which was beginning to parch. 

“Not funny, Pat.”

“A bit funny.”

Brian rolled his eyes. “Okay, it was hilarious.”

Brian begged to be allowed to ride with Patrick to the hospital before remembering he was, in fact, the president. He didn’t particularly enjoy abusing his power, as unusual as that was in the ruler of a country, but at the moment it wasn’t hurting anyone and he felt sick with dread. Patrick was smiling and chatting amicably, but he could see the permanent frown he sported and the barely contained grimaces whenever the stretcher shifted or the ambulance hit a bump on the road. The ride was shorter than expected, as a hospital had been built as an extension of the University campus.

They arrived in a matter of minutes and Patrick, still insistent on the fact that he was “Just fine, really”, was taken inside. Brian paced around, glaring at the big, bold letters that shouted ‘hospital’. He felt guilty using the public health system so freely, his mind wandering to the many protests he had attended back in his homeland, fighting for something fairer, something akin to what other countries had. Something like this.

But there was something else nagging him. He wasn’t defenceless. Sure, he couldn’t fight a gigantic beast with a killer instinct, but he relied on Patrick for many things when, in reality, he probably didn’t need to. He felt the debt he owed growing each time he was saved, each time he was advised, hell, each time he spoke to his friend for even the most domestic things, really. And he truly had no idea of how to start paying it back.

Next chapter:


	3. Welcome to the Party

Going back to the ‘That Colour That Looks Like Old, Dried Lemon’ House alone meant he would have to act out both his and Patrick’s role, at least until the doctors released him from their iron grip. Oh, they had insisted plenty that he could recover just fine in his home, but the professionals had made some irrefutable arguments about his being a ‘stressful job which could potentially put a strain on his health’. And since they weren’t wrong, not even Brian’s presidential status had convinced otherwise.

The big building felt empty, despite the many armed guards and workers, all going on about their business without paying him one ounce of attention. And that was the thing, even though his crowning had been scandalous, bringing Spain’s democratic character to an end, few people had actually seen him. That, and the fact that the news people hadn't taken one single decent shot of his face, made him go unnoticed rather easily.

Come to think of it, it was probably one of the reasons -second to Pat’s undeniable skill- why all attempts on his life had been foiled rather quickly. He had, at one point, been asked by a masked man holding a rather large carving knife where he could find the president.

He had given the man directions to Pat’s quarters and then walked him there, chatting amicably with the hitman. Pat had barely stifled a laugh when Brian had told him the “Gentleman over here is looking for the president, have you seen him, by any chance?” He had thanked Brian, assuring him he would take care of said ‘gentleman’ from then on, no need for Brian to stick around any longer.

The secretary stationed next to the spacey elevator neither he nor Patrick ever used gave him a curt salute and told him he had a meeting scheduled to start in twenty minutes in the conference room. A meeting to attend without Patrick, at that.

He felt uneasy as he quickly changed into something appropriate. His suit would be fit for the occasion, hadn’t he insisted on hugging the life out of the mudman that Patrick had become by the end of their visit. He winced, remembering Patrick’s bruised side after the doctor had cut his shirt. He had probably hurt him, even if unconsciously so.

He walked through the door into the conference room unceremoniously and plopped down on his chair, greeting the men gathered there with a simple “Gentlemen, let’s see what I can do for you today.”

In hindsight, he should have probably checked the room before entering or brought some guards with him. Anything other than casually strolling into a room full of people he didn’t know and occupying his chair. As he looked up he found seven guns trained on him, eight, counting the clicking sound he heard behind him.

“Junkie, we have a proposal.” At the other end of the unnecessarily large table sat a bulky man with a full beard and steely eyes.

“I assure you, sir, that as both president and king of this country I partake in approximately zero drug use, especially of the illegal kind.”

That seemed to confuse the man. His expression turned thunderous the second he realised Brian was merely taking the piss out of him. It wasn’t helped at all when the man sitting to his right, sweaty and nervous in an overly incriminating way, decided to lean in and whisper “I think you mean Yankee.”

“Look, you think that just because you have a stupid title you hold any real power?” The man stood, his chair falling backwards loudly. Maybe someone would hear it and come see what was happening because Brian had a very bad feeling about the situation for some reason he couldn’t explain. Oh, the guns still pointing at him, of course, how silly of him to forget. 

He kept silent, knowing that anything he said would fuel the man’s anger even more. He had thought about that question many times. It was, after all, a title. “President”. “King”. Words, nothing more. He didn’t feel any more powerful now than he did as a video editor at Polygon. This higher status, if anything, had come at the cost of his freedom. Hardly any of the choices he made nowadays were his.

He had thought many times of resigning his position, leaving everything behind and going back home, where his job made him happy and he could keep his friends close and where he had a slightly higher chance of getting shot, but that was okay.

But the man spoke again. Hateful words, full of spite, “I should be president this”, “You are just an immigrant that”. Words spoken not to hurt, but because the man truly believed them to be the truth. Or maybe he did hope to shred his ego into nothingness, but whatever the intention behind them, they did something else, the accusations, the insults. They fanned the flames deep inside him, a fire ready to fight injustices until all that remained were ashes or until it was put out for good. For men like these, entitled and self-righteous, they were the reason so many suffered. His own country struggled to keep afloat, and there were no secrets as to why.

The insults were a reminder.

Had he not meddled in Spain’s affairs, then seeing a fascist party rise to power would be a shame, a sad and angering thing to read on the news and be soon forgotten. But because he had chosen to be involved, even if involuntarily so, and because it was his responsibility now, he couldn’t let the country down. He wouldn’t.

So as the man ranted on and on, he kept quiet, but alert. His appearance helped him, unthreatening and pliant, the effect somewhat diminished by his lustrous and iconic moustache, and the men with guns soon began to relax. In fact, it seemed that the angrier, bigger and redder their leader got, the less they worried, surely expecting the bearded man to end Brian with his bare hands. The outcome wouldn’t surprise him.

As soon as the man moved on to the “great loss for the people of Spain since Brian murdered the best party the country had ever seen rise to power”, he had to cut in because first of all, it had been the coffee cup, not him, and second, he refused to sit through a forty-minute long meeting that consisted of a random man shouting at him.

Another unwise move on his part. The man smiled, all teeth and sat down again on a chair much closer to Brian than he would have liked, simply walking over the one he had thrown down.

“Straight to the point, I see.” If only, he thought and steadied himself, both hands pressed flat against the table. “As I said, we have a proposal. We looked you up, you’re a nobody, and soon, you will be doing our bidding.”

Brian waited a few seconds for the threat to come. It only made sense, after all, but when the man didn’t speak again, still looking at him expectantly, he let out a sight. “Or..?”

“Or we will destroy you.”

“See? That wasn’t so hard. I don’t know why you made me ask.”

“Take this seriously,” interrupted sweaty-man from the end of the room.

“I don’t want you guys to get your hopes up, thinking that by being silent I’m considering it or something so, eh, it’s gonna be a no for me.”

“If your mind is made up, then I believe we have nothing else to discuss.” Still smiling he turned to sweaty-man. “Javier, please tell our boys at the hospital that we no longer need the _Yankee_ alive.”

It felt like a bucket of cold water being poured over him. He drew a breath, slow, and clenched his teeth. Right, going after Pat. Predictable. Stupidly so.

Then again, no-one ever noticed Pat. He was silent and stealthy, always there when Brian basked in mountains of attention, always keeping an eye on the fun but never participating directly. But these men had. And Pat was in the hospital, _hurt_. He would never expect these men to sneak up on him, he wouldn’t see them coming.

The man took in his clenched fists and smiled.

“Would you like to reconsider.”

He nodded. Once.

And just like that, his integrity was out the window, if he had any, to begin with. 

“We’ll be in contact.”

One by one, the men left the room, weapons still drawn. Sweaty-man smiled an ugly grimace and left. Bearded Asshole, as Brian had mentally nicknamed him, stopped by his chair and patted him in the back. “This country needs men like me, and men like me need dogs like you to step on. Welcome to the Party.”

Next chapter:


	4. A happy country is a country with no past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are four things to be known about the author: I'm Spanish, I'm angry, I have strong political views and I'm going to be overindulgent in this fic.
> 
> Although if no knowledge of Spanish politics or politics, in general, is needed in order to actually partake in Spanish politics, then surely none is needed to read this fic.

Brian spent two days in his room, alternating between staring at the wall and staring at Zuko, who had stayed with him in Spain after Jonah and Laura, his roommates, returned to the States. The furry barbarian in turn stared and mrowred back at him with as much concern as a cat could express.

His first thought was to grab Pat, run and hide. Go back to the States, go to Portugal, wherever. The Bearded Asshole had known he would try to flee, or at least think about it, and before the day was over he had received a message from an unknown number.

_ “We will know your location at all times. We know about your visa. Better stay in place.” _

They had a point. He had come to Spain on a three-month tourist visa which had expired a long time ago, which technically meant he had no legal papers, left only with an excuse teetering on unbelievable if he did ever try to return to the USA, which he would. But for the moment it meant he had his hands tied.

Then there was the problem of Patrick. As much as he hated keeping secrets from Pat, he knew he couldn’t tell him about the meeting.

That, together with a nice dose of anxiety made him hide away in his room until the inevitable happened. Patrick was back.

He knew he should at least try to pretend he was his quirky self but the thought of smiling made him want to vomit, so instead, he dragged his feet to the top of the stairs of the waiting room that lead to their living quarters and waited, averting his gaze as Patrick’s voice filled the room.

“Bee! I’m home!” He quickly made his way up the stairs and embraced Brian. He couldn’t help shying away from him and Pat shot him a concerned look. 

“You, uh, you okay?”

“Yeah just worried about your ribs.”

Patrick thankfully shrugged off his odd demeanour, walking happily to the end of the waiting room and jumping on one of the sofas.

“Nah they’ll be just fine as long as I don’t make any ‘strenuous effort’.”

“So maybe avoid flinging yourself onto the furniture, yes?”

“Whatever you say.” He threw him an overly innocent look, blinking prettily. It made Brian’s stomach churn. Unable to answer in kind, he headed for the stairs.

“I have some presidential business to attend to. I’ll see you at dinner.”

Patrick blinked in confusion as Brian hurried down the steps. Brian, the giddy summer child who normally would have reacted overly excited at him being back so soon. His instinct told him something was off, but Brian was unharmed, so clearly it was something else eating at him.

Maybe he did actually feel bad about his ribs, even though he had nothing to do with it. Brian wasn’t the monster who tried to rip him apart or even the cops who recklessly fired at him.

He decided to give the man some space. If it were anything important he would have told Pat, of that he was sure.

And as he intended to follow through with leaving Brian to his own mind, he lingered in the waiting area for a few more seconds before opting to go to the canteen the workers used, at the other end of the building. He made a beeline for the freezer he kept stocked full of hot pockets. Although the food in the hospital hadn’t been particularly awful, he wouldn't miss it, and it certainly couldn't be compared to the pastry-wrapped, cheesy bliss that were hot pockets.

Still feeling uneasy, he wolfed down an excessive amount of overheated pockets. He and Brian had a meeting to attend just a few hours into the evening with representatives from the UN and another one with Portuguese ambassadors. Maintaining a dictatorial empire well into the 21st Century was hard work, not so much on the bellicist side of things, but on the moral grounds, one had to cover all fronts.

Their main objectives were to keep as many allies as possible as they had lost the UK after aiding Scotland during the revolutionary waves at the end of 2020 and the last president of the country had done a majestic job at destroying any relationship Spain had ever had with Portugal. That was their main problem. Having an enemy in their backyard, snuggling up to Spain’s side, wasn’t the best plan.

He called in the ministry of foreign affairs and cooperation, a woman of few words and even fewer neurons who made up for it in decibels every time she opened her mouth. She had been hired by Pat himself after the sixty-seventh assassination attempt. Firing everyone and re-building the administration was the safest bet, hand-picking every single person himself.

“SIR.”

“Luisa, please, sit down.”

The woman did so.

“We need to convince the UN guys that this little thing we have going on here is sustainable and we need to get the international market back on track, right now the only thing keeping us afloat is the oil deal with Italy and Greece and, well, every other country.”

Luisa nodded, not bothering to take any notes or even pretend she was listening.

“Well, any news on when they will be arriving?”

The woman nodded again and Pat took a calming breath, feeling his patience running thin.

“When will it be?”

“THREE, SIR.”

“Well, have the security detail on the ready, in case the President decides to join us. I’ll get one of the big rooms ready, and with any luck, Spain won’t be invaded for another couple years.”

“ _ THREE _ , SIR.”

Pat blinked. “Yeah, I heard.” The woman didn’t speak again, and it only took Pat a few seconds to understand what he was conveying. “Shit, siesta.”

“YES, SIR.”

“No security detail, then. Nevermind, I can deal with them if they decide to get hostile, what’s another gunfight at this point, right?” But Luisa didn’t laugh at his weak attempt at humour. Instead, she stared at Patrick. Hard.

After the awkward silence had stretched for too long she simply pulled back a chair and signalled for Pat to sit.

He sunk into the chair, defeated. “I’m going in over my head, right? I’m getting too confident and it’s going to get him killed.”

“Or you, sir,” Luisa spoke in a lower volume. She only ever did that if she was planning on speaking for long.

“Or me, of course.”

“But you didn’t say it, sir.”

“Well, if they did get to him then clearly I would be dead by then. I thought I didn’t need to clarify something as obvious as that.” He was raising his voice now and he couldn’t really tell why the words were angering him so much. She had a point, after all.

“You say that like it makes it any better, sir.”

“Drop the sir if you’re going to speak every three seconds. And I only say it because it’s true.” It  _ was _ true, simple as that, but Luisa couldn’t just drop it, no, she had to keep pushing. 

“It’s worrying.”

“It’s what’s expected from my job.”

“Where does it say so?”

“Oh my God!” He stood abruptly and flung the chair across the room. Had he been any less angry, more focused, he might have seen the dent at his feet, similar to the one left by the chair he had thrown. He could feel something hot bubbling inside him, rising from his lungs and choking him, pulling at his insides. Pure ire. “Who cares?! It doesn’t have to be written in some fucking contract! Can’t I care about a friend without everyone questioning me?”

“Of course, no-one wants their friends to suffer.”

“Oh, so you do understand, then. I’m surprised.” Women like Luisa didn’t react kindly to sarcasm but he was well past caring. It wasn’t that hard to get it in his mind. A lot of people wanted Brian dead, and he could stop them from achieving their goal, easy as that. And if part of his subconscious tried telling him  _ “a lot of people want you dead, too” _ _,_ he ignored it.

“I hoped to be of help, as I could see you misunderstood my words, but now I know you do it purposefully. Have a good day, sir.”

“Good, leave. It isn’t my fault you don’t understand something as easy as me wanting to keep Brian alive.”

“You are still freaking out about the wrong thing, sir.”

“I guess it is my problem, then.”

He glared at the door well after Luisa was gone, overthinking. He was well aware of what she had been trying to say, but she was wrong. He knew the risks of the job, his life was in danger as much as Brian’s, if not more, considering he faced most threats, but everyone talked to him as though he didn’t know what he had signed up for. And maybe this wasn’t the life he wanted for himself, and he couldn’t honestly say the situation in which he found himself was his fault in any way, but none of that mattered to him. 

The past was best left in the past if there was nothing to be gained from revisiting it.

He was still glaring when the UN representatives arrived, a frown etched deep in his face. 

The meeting went surprisingly well. Even though a concerning amount of countries felt uneasy with Spain being part of the UN, considering the lack of democracy, none was willing to propose a vote-out. They all craved the liquid gold. Spain was the main and nearly only big olive oil producer in the world after Italy and Greece fought each other out of the international market.

He was pleased with himself as the men and women left the room. The video game editing and commentary skills he had acquired working for Polygon back in the States translated nicely into politics, somehow, and he easily swayed those he met.

Portugal was a whole other mess to deal with and luck wasn’t on his side this time as the ambassadors arrived with their minds set and left triumphant. 

The ambassador staying in Madrid kept a stiff upper lip as he gave his dispassionate speech. The rest merely agreed in silence, condemning Spain to an enmity sure to disturb the country’s political scenery for many years to come if they didn’t find a way to fix it.

Already coming up with a plan to mend the relationship both countries had, Patrick headed back to the living quarters. The country was fragmenting, fast. Although it wasn’t their fault. When they arrived and took the reins people were already divided, politically, morally, theologically, hell, almost any preference you had immediately got them labelled as ‘this’ or ‘that’. And past leaders had done a truly wonderful job at perpetuating the state of chaos and hostility that ruled over the country. 

He didn’t give two shits about names, whose fault it had been, which president or king had screwed up way back in the beginning. They were paying the price now, and it was expensive.

The more he thought about it, forgiving and forgetting had been an excuse used by spineless politicians after democracy was reinstated back in the 1980s. Too many crimes had gone unpunished, too many bad people roamed the streets and too many downright criminals stood too close to powerful positions.

Now, that the line of thinking could be dangerous and send him down a dark path, he didn’t want to start throwing people in prison or executing them because as much as that would save them some trouble, it just wasn’t the human thing to do, but taking a quick look at the legislation in place and slightly modifying some things was definitely in order.

He just needed to tell Brian first, although he probably wouldn’t care. 

“No, don’t think like that.”

A man in the corridor turned to look at him, confused. He dismissed him quickly and picked up his pace. Great, thinking out loud.

He passed a few more people on the corridors. Most ignored him, although he caught a few glaring his way. Xenophobia, how lovely. He was honestly surprised they recognised him, to begin with.

“Brian, we have to talk.” He gave the man a few seconds before knocking on his door. “Bri, come on, open up.” Their rooms had a door connecting them, but he’d rather not get in that way, privacy and all.

However, that didn’t mean he was willing to sit idle for as long as Brian took to come out.

“Look, I know something’s up, and if you don’t want to tell me that’s fine,” Even if it wasn’t. “But I do need to talk to you, so come on.” He knocked until his knuckles hurt and then swore loudly. “Look, I don’t care, okay? You can keep to yourself whatever it is that has you all moody, but open this fucking door or I’m done with you!”

“What?” Brian, wide-eyed by the door at the other end of the corridor. Of course, he wasn’t in his room, just his luck. Now he had been shouting at a door for no reason.

Rather than giving an explanation or at least trying to cool down, Patrick glared at Brian.

“Listen to me, I’m done being the cleanup guy. If you won’t do what has to be done then I will.”

He stormed off. He knew it was the childish thing to do, but he had a reason for being mad. Brian wasn’t cut for it. He was as spineless as the others, always acting as though everything was fine. As though they were okay.

And in his mind, he was allowed to have a little tantrum. He’d apologise later, and rightfully so.

But things were far from okay, and a thing as ludicrous as leaving Brian in that hallway, perplexed and guilty, would cost him more than he would have ever imagined.

Next chapter:


	5. Kill your reputation

Brian kept himself busy with paperwork over the next few weeks. Every now and then he would get a call asking that he sign a specific document, but upon reading thoroughly every last one the pages they faxed him he could never find anything evil about them. Nothing that would ruin the country or tarnish his reputation.

His routine, however, was beginning to get tiresome. Wake up, sign papers, avoid Patrick, eat, avoid Patrick some more, sign papers, sleep.

And when it came to Pat, he didn’t even know why he scurried down corridors if he ever heard him nearby. Sure, Pat had shouted at him for no reason, but surely talking about it was a better solution than simply hiding? His brain begged to differ. Whenever he heard that voice, both comforting and nerve-wracking, he couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable.

The one time he ran into him face-first as they rounded the same corner he realised a few seconds too late he was grimacing. Patrick noticed, too, judging by the irritation in his voice as he mumbled a “Good morning” before walking past him. 

The new distance between them became noticeable during the mandatory, monthly assassination attempt. Brian saw a shady-looking guy who definitely didn’t belong in the ‘That Colour That Looks Like Old, Dried Lemon’ House lurking around, eyeing the cameras suspiciously as he headed towards the living quarters. It was starting to get old, really. They all managed to find the place just fine before realising they had no way of knowing who their target was, as Pat had made sure there were no photos of Brian laying around. 

They then asked around, mostly by dragging staff into secluded areas and threatening them. By the time they came around to interrogating Brian about the whereabouts of the king/president they were desperate enough to simply follow him as he lead them to their ‘target’, too tired to suspect anything was up. 

Knife pressed firmly to his back, Brian led the gentleman to the canteen, where Patrick spent his time since their little dispute. He was surprised to find it empty, but not _too_ surprised. The building was huge, after all, and he didn’t have Pat’s routine memorised, why would he?

However, the danger he was in became apparent when the assassin brought the knife to his front, pressing the sharp edge to his neck.

“Need, uh, a moment to calm down?”

“Shut up, you said he would be here, where is he?”

“He is usually here, okay? We can keep searching.”

“No, too risky.”

Brian lifted an eyebrow to no-one in particular.

“Well, then, what do suggest?”

The man was quick to answer him, although not how Brian would have expected.

 _‘What a lame suggestion’_ , he thought as he felt the brass knife sinking into his shoulder, right before the pain shot through his body. Waves of heat rippled through him for a few seconds as he fell, failing to catch himself. He landed on his left side, the impact pushing the knife deeper, widening the wound, just what he needed. The heat was almost immediately replaced with freezing pain, thousands of tiny needles pricking his every nerve, perforating his muscles.

He clenched his teeth, knowing that if he began screaming, it was unlikely he would stop. The warmth of his blood quickly pooling around his upper body only heightened the cold feeling that ran through his body. 

Luckily, every tragedy has a silver lining. His phone chirped, a happy and groovy tune to match his current state. The thought of bleeding out to _Staying Alive_ gave him the strength he needed to pull the phone out of his pocket, every small movement pulling at the open flesh of his wound.

He figured the assassin had left by now but didn’t bother checking. The man had somehow managed to accomplish his mission without even knowing. _‘_ _Not yet’._

He answered, laying the phone next to his mouth on speaker mode and letting his arm fall back to the floor.

He waited, too exhausted and pained to be the one to talk first.

“Yankee.”

Oh, great, just what he needed. At least he would have the satisfaction of never seeing that bastard again. Can’t use a pawn if that pawn is dead.

“Blackmailer.”

“No hard feelings, I hope.” He could hear the smugness on the other end and returned it in kind.

“None, although I’m afraid I won’t be of much use to you in the future.”

“Nonsense, our people are already on their way. Remember, you owe us, now more than ever.” He hung up, leaving Brian confused. Another feeling to add to the cocktail of pain and betrayal. 

Exhaustion swept over him and he barely registered the door being opened. Men with scowls. One of them, equipped with white, latex gloves and a white face mask hovered over him. He barked a few words in Spanish to the other men before carefully and methodically removing the knife from his shoulder. As the blade slipped from the wound Brian slipped into unconsciousness.

The men finished their jobs _in situ_ , the risk of him bleeding out too high to take him to another location, and once he was stabilised they whisked him away. 

Whatever his blackmailers - and now kidnappers - had planned, they weren’t willing to wait around for long. 

“You forfeit all your responsibilities and willingly hand them over to me.”

Brian blinked, the angry man coming into focus. He looked impatient, tapping an uncapped pen against the papers. He could still feel the burning in his shoulder, and every little movement pulled against the stitches he now had in place, pulling the torn skin taut.

“Come on,” the man grabbed his hand and pulled, the movement making him yelp. Taking no notice, the man shoved the pen into his open hand. “ _Sign_. You forfeit all your responsibilities and willingly hand them over to me.”

He was half-sitting in a folding chair, completely slumped against a table. The room setup looked very similar to those at the ‘That Colour That Looks Like Old, Dried Lemon’ House, so he figured he was in a governmental building.

His clothes, bloody but dry, felt like cardboard against his skin as he wondered if maybe, this time, he was done for good.

The guy snapped his fingers to catch his attention. “Awake yet?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, then what the fuck are you waiting for?”

“What am I signing?” His grip felt weak, as though the pen would slip from his grasp at any given moment. He scribbled _BDG_ , not waiting for an answer, and placed the first sheet aside.

The man smiled, pleased. “You are going to forfeit all your responsibilities and willingly hand them over to me. I can’t be the king since you would have to abdicate and that would take too much time and paperwork, but power is merely a matter of presidentialism.”

“Is this legal?” Asking about legalities was hypocritical, to say the least, considering how he himself rose to power, but he couldn't find it in him to care. 

Paper after paper, the pile began thinning.

“It’s complicated.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“Normally, having a vote of no-confidence would be enough, but since they fucked everything up in 1978 with the last Constitution now I need a governmental project or something resembling it to become the president.”

“And what I’m signing is..?”

“My project, which might as well be a bunch of blank papers, but no-one has to know.”

“Seems like a dumb law, honestly. I don’t see how any president would sign a rival’s project under any other circumstances.”

“The president doesn’t have to sign it or even agree to it, we had another organism for that, but when you became king _and_ president the Parliament stopped being a thing. The Senate too, but that was useless anyway.”

He got to the last two papers and stopped just in time. There’s no way he could have missed the bold letters screaming **_Death Warrant_** at him. The other document was an identical copy, the only difference being the name of the man to be executed.

“Sign those and we are done here.”

He looked pointedly at the documents for a few seconds before looking up at the angry man.

“You either sign this now or after spending a little quality time in a cell.”

“I’m not signing this.”

“Once again, you refuse to cooperate out of your own accord. Very well, then.”

He tried protesting as two men all but dragged him out of the room. “You don’t even need me to sign those to be president!”

“That is right, but I don’t think the public opinion would sway in my favour by having my name on those death warrants. If they see yours, however…” He smiled as the door closed, leaving Brian to piece it together. It wasn’t that hard.

He was an immigrant, and not even European at that. He had seized power and modified the law. And although he wasn’t hated by all Spaniards, he wasn’t well-loved either. Now, the man who had prioritised ruining his life was Spanish, very ‘patriotic’, and all about fighting for Spain. His fascist tendencies had turned left-wing parties off to the point where they would rather back up Brian’s presidency, but if he signed the death warrants there was no doubt as to what would happen.

Of course, losing the support from left-wing parties wasn’t his main concern or even the reason he had refused to sign the documents. He wasn’t a murderer, and he would rather die than give the order to have two people killed. It was a no-brainer. The fact that anyone, especially that asshole, could think he would give in so easily to save his own skin made his blood boil.

He was fuming by the time they threw him in a cell and the flaring pain that shot through his body from the impact with the concrete floor made his vision whiten. He didn’t even notice he wasn’t alone until a voice caught his attention. A woman, young and curious enough about his presence to lean slightly towards him from where she lay on top of an uncomfortable-looking cot. 

“Your shoulder is bleeding.”

He must have popped a few stitches. He was wearing a black suit jacket, which made it hard to judge the amount of blood oozing from the wound, but he had stained the floor.

“What’s your name?”

“Brian.”

“Nice to meet you, Brian. You can call me Nipah.” He raised an eyebrow at that.

“It’s a nickname.”

“Your friends must hate you.”

“It was given to me by the police.”

“Why?”

“I’m a serial killer. They give nicknames to serial killers.”

He didn’t know what to say to that.

“Life is… complicated at times.”

“I guess it is.”

“So, how did you offend the bigots?”

“I refused to sign two death warrants.”

She smiled as if reminiscing past times. “We had a president who did that once.”

“How did it go for him?”

“Probably better than he expected, which isn’t saying a lot. But you know, as long as you aren’t the actual president or anything, I wouldn’t worry too much.”

Brian contemplated saying something but quickly decided against doing so. He had enemies everywhere. In fact, he couldn’t really say he had anything other than enemies. He thought of Pat, angry and exasperated at him. Maybe he would be better off now.

The woman lost interest in him pretty quickly, thankfully. Not that she didn’t seem nice, but serial killers were known to have a tendency of... killing. He shifted until he lay next to the wall, as close to comfortable as he could get, and closed his eyes. Whatever happened next, he would rather face it rested.

Next chapter:


	6. Let the beast loose

He spent six days in the cell, with small breaks to go to the bathroom every now and then. Every morning and every evening a militia-looking man would give him a sandwich and ask him whether he was ready to sign the death warrants, as blunt as it sounded. He was surprised at the lack of retaliation when time after time he answered in the negative.

The angry man didn’t show up at any point, too busy with the government matters he now had to take care of, Brian assumed.

But despite the food and water and overall decent conditions of his captivity, as the week came to an end he found he could hardly stand on his own. He felt weak and sick. His skin had taken a feverishly pale tone and there wasn’t a single second of the day when he didn’t feel nauseous.

“Are you gonna tell them you’re sick or..?” Nipah barely talked to him. There was no need for conversation, although there was no hostility from her part, as Brian had first expected. Her cool indifference had once again been replaced with that curious glint from when they first met.

“Doesn’t seem smart.”

“So you are going to wait for death, got it.”

“Look, I just don’t want to give them a reason to get rid of me.”

She looked thoughtful for a moment.

“Is there any reason why they would keep you around?”

“Not really. At least not that I know of.”

“Well then, your call, but you look like a corpse.”

He raised his eyebrows slightly, absentmindedly eyeing the door. “Guess that makes me safe from at least  _ one  _ person.”

He immediately turned to her, apologetic and tense. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it.”

She simply snorted, waving her hand dismissively.

“You are a funny little man.”

They stopped talking after that, Brian counting up to sixty over and over again. Maybe if he counted faster, time would actually pass faster. He didn’t know what he was waiting for, but as long as he kept himself entertained his mind wouldn’t wander. So far he had avoided thinking of Pat. Would he be worried? Well, of course, but would he be annoyed-worried or  _ worried _ -worried. Brian had never disappeared for a whole day, let alone a week, but Patrick probably thought he was just hiding and having a tantrum.

Those thoughts quickly took over the hollow task of counting until they filled his mind to the brim. If he let them spill, he would have a full-blown panic attack. He only just managed to keep them at bay by gripping his pants, nails clawing through the thin fabric at his thighs. He had to keep it together. Didn’t he? 

Not that he subscribed to those silly masculine stereotypes, so definitely it wasn’t about protecting his virility. Because he was the president, maybe? Had been, same thing. But then again, political figures, and adults in general, did no better than children when it came to keeping their emotions in check.

So why should he care? It was his right to feel sad and angsty in such a situation. He was captive, away from home and possibly on his deathbed.

And if Patrick didn’t care, he didn’t know, but he might as well make assumptions at this point. He knew he was over-analysing shit, he always was. He simply couldn’t help it. But his mind was spinning, the dizziness increasing and when a tan hand he knew belonged to the militia-looking dude appeared out of nowhere and all but shoved a sandwich in his face he was polite enough to turn to the side before throwing up, knowing the guy probably wouldn’t appreciate him retching in his direction.

“Shit.”

“Brian, you should probably tell him.”

“You shut up,” the man glared in Nipah’s direction but Brian was too busy coughing up a lung to give their interaction any attention.

The man grabbed him by the shirt, effortlessly lifting him up and away from the pool of puke and towards the door. Nipah gave him a small, uncertain two-finger salute before the door was closed.

He was taken to a meeting room he hadn’t been in before that he could recall, their brusque entrance interrupting some sort of meeting.

“What the hell?” More men, more scowls and a few worried looks. Both the angry man and the mouse-looking dude where nowhere to be seen.

“Doc?”

A face he knew, less intimidating now that it wasn’t hidden by a clinical mask. The man wore normal clothes but still had an air of authority about him.

“What happened to him?”

“Nothing, I just tried to give him his food and suddenly he was throwing up. He looks bad.”

“Past his expiration date if ya ask me,” another man chipped in, quickly silenced by the doctor who swatted him in the shoulder.

“Clear the room.”

“I was right though when I said you shouldn’t have taken the knife out, remember?” The nameless Spaniard seemed bent on annoying the doctor.

“So you went to medical school, is that it? Well, then, why don’t you take care of him? That way you can be the one to explain to the boss why his precious little captive is dead.” The doctor snapped. He didn’t let the other man get a word in before continuing. “I pulled the knife out because I deemed it safer than leaving it there. It was a shallow stab, no veins or arteries appeared to have been pierced and the biggest risk was an infection which was apparent looking at the rusty knife which you would have known if you were a  _ fucking  _ doctor.”

Another man whistled in the background but militia-man, who still held Brian in a stiff embrace resembling a hug, was visibly getting tired.

“Cool it, doc. What’s the problem with him?”

Just as quick as he had exploded, he regained his composure, indicating for militia-man to lay him down on the floor. Brian whined pathetically as his burning skin came into contact with the cool surface.

He unbuttoned his shirt, pushing it to the side in order to reveal the would. He pressed his fingers to the closed wound. Almost healed, an ugly, thin, red line of a scar remained. The area around, however, should have been his pale skin tone. The doctor frowned at the visible discolouration patterns.

“Does this hurt?” He pressed again, not easing.

“Inside,” Brian whispered, hoping the doctor would somehow understand. His shoulder was on fire.

“Of course it hurts him it’s a fucking bruise. He’s just extra bitchy.” For some reason, even though almost everyone had cleared the room as had been instructed, the asshole lacking medical expertise still lingered in the background.

“Not a bruise. But I’ll gladly provide you with a few of those if you don’t leave right now.”

Once the three of them were finally alone, militia-man spoke up with a considerably softer voice, probably to avoid the wrath of the doctor.

“It does look like a bruise, though.”

“Discoloration, and it spreads further than the area of the wound.” The doctor’s fingers traced his collarbone before moving his head to the side and pressing against the skin of his neck. “You should be glad he threw up on you, otherwise he would have gone into septic shock without us even noticing.”

“He didn’t, actually, but I’m glad. Hospital?”

The doctor looked troubled.

“Well, I did all I could back there, although clearly we cleaned the wound too late, so it’s probably all over his bloodstream by now. I have antibiotics here, but I don’t think those will suffice.”

“So hospital.”

“It would be for the best.”

“But we can’t.”

“Right.”

“Because we can’t take captives outside.”

“I understand.”

“It would be going against the orders.”

“I said I understood.”

They shared a look before glancing back at Brian. He stared at them.

There was a pregnant pause, the silence finally broken by militia-man, who looked like he already regretted the words he was going to say before opening his mouth.

“I’ll go get one of the cars ready. Be discrete.”

“What if the boss notices?”

“Oh, he will, but I have a little distraction in mind that might just work.”

“You don’t sound too sure.”

He smiled bitterly.

“I’m about to let a serial killer loose on unsuspecting men, doc, forgive me if I don’t sound all that determined.”

The doctor gripped Brian by the shoulders, shaking him slightly.

“Little man, what a mess you’ve got us into.”

Brian frowned. Surely they couldn’t blame him for whatever they were planning on doing, he had merely laid there, dying in silence. The man returned shortly, a nervous smile pulling at his lips.

“Did you do it?”

“No need to.”

The doctor frowned, but his silent question was answered by a blaring alarm. 

“She was already gone. There were some dead people in the hallway leading to the cell. And to the elevator. And to a whole other lot of places but understand, I didn’t stop to check any of them.”

He hoisted Brian up with ease, throwing him over his shoulder like one would a sack of potatoes.

“We’re leaving, now. I hope you don’t need anything doc because every second we spend here we are at risk.”

The doctor nodded gravely.

Out in the hallway, it didn’t take long for them to come across several bodies, including some of the men who had previously been in the room with them.

“She really did a number on them.”

They didn’t encounter anyone, or at least anyone with their vitals untouched.

Once in the car, he was carefully laid down across the backseats and militia-man laid a blanket over him, effectively suffocating him.

“Even if everyone has their minds on that psycho, we still have to go over protocols before leaving. Don’t wiggle or anything.”

He tried his best to get comfortable in the smouldering sea of fluff and dust, closing his eyes as the car came to life. Only a week had passed, but every ounce of control he had over his own life had been stripped away.

A terrifying thought came to him then. Patrick was still in the  ‘That Colour That Looks Like Old, Dried Lemon’ House and he was no longer the president. That meant that, for all he knew, Patrick was pretty much  _ not  _ okay.

Next Chapter:


End file.
